Glenaray.
[Evan M'Coll.—Tune, "Gradh geal mo chri."]
O why do I love thee, Glenaray, O why?
'Tis not for thy plains or thy woods waving high,
Thy flowers wildly blooming, or brown heather braes,
Glenaray, Glenaray, I care not for these.
I love thee,—but not for thy echoing hills,
I court thee,—but not for thy crystalline rills;
I haunt thee,—but not for thy fountains so clear,
And the chase on thy mountains allures me not here.
Oh no! for unheeded the roe now skips by,
The wild foaming cascade is nought in mine eye;
Sweet glen! what then makes thee an Eden to me?
'Tis the lass with the bright and the blue rolling e'e.
Yes, maid of my love! as a bee that has found
Some sweet-laden bloom, as it wanders around,
Returns and returns oft to feast on his prize,
Even so my heart moves to drink love from thine eyes.
False friendship may flatter, coy fortune may smile,
And hope's dazzling meteor shine soon to beguile;
Away with such shadows! there's nothing to me
Like the lass with the bright and the blue rolling e'e.